


(Honey) In the Middle

by Stratisphyre



Category: Goon (2011)
Genre: Hockey, Multi, My Québécois French is garbage, Pre-Last of the Enforcers, Sexist Language, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 20:59:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12968313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/pseuds/Stratisphyre
Summary: Something everyone knows about Xavier LaFlamme: he isn’t a fighter.Something only Dougie knows about Xavier LaFlamme: he’s getting over it.





	(Honey) In the Middle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aleksrothis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleksrothis/gifts).



> Hello, aleksrothis, and thank you for the awesome Yuletide prompt. I’ve always loved Doug/Xavier/Eva, and I was so pleased when you said you'd be happy to have Eva included. I really hope you enjoy my humble Yuletide offerings.
> 
> I would also like to take a second to thank and acknowledge the Yuletide admins, organizers and participants who make this such an amazing challenge every year. 
> 
> For anyone worried about the tags, please be aware of some sexist language (realistic hockey bloggers/players). I didn’t like writing it, but I’m also aware of how it exists and wanted to provide a sense of realism. Please note it doesn't come from Doug or Xavier.
> 
> This is partially inspired by _Last of the Enforcers_ and how LaFlamme seemed prepared to drop gloves/go over the boards every time someone so much as looked at Dougie the wrong way. That's my boy.

Something everyone knows about Xavier LaFlamme: he isn’t a fighter. Actively avoids it. Ever since being laid out by Ross, can’t stand the idea of his head connecting with the ice. Left the NHL to play minor league hockey because, in his fear, he became meek. Frightened of his own shadow. 

“An enormous pussy,” a sports commentator from some random fucking vlog announces. “He could be the mascot for a lesbo bar.” 

Something only Dougie knows about Xavier LaFlamme: he’s getting over it. 

“Teach me how to fight,” he begs Dougie. 

They’re the only two left at the rink except for Ronnie, who’s running plays in his office and muttering under his breath about their preseason. Dougie’s just finished with his physio for the day, sweaty and near breathless, but no longer in obvious pain. It’s the only reason Xavier dares ask; he’s been waiting, the request pressed up against the inside of his chest, until Dougie finally seems well on the road to recovery. 

Dougie laughs, “What?” He pauses. “What.” He laughs again, this time with pauses punctuating his breath like commas in between twitches of his chest. “What?” 

Xavier looks at him, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. “ _Va te crosser_.” Dougie blinks, confused and Xavier shakes his head. “You’re out another two months, yes? I don’t have anyone to watch my back.” Dougie immediately looks guilty, and Xavier feels like a piece of shit. “ _Désolé._ I know you will be watching my back, even from the bench, yes?” Dougie nods, though doesn’t appear mollified. “I need you to teach me to fight. Just in case.” 

“You won’t go picking fights with assholes like Oldfield or Norris?” 

_“Non. Je promets_. I promise.” 

“All right,” Doug’s fists clench at his side, as though already imagining the feel of a jersey clenched in his hand. “Have you ever thrown a punch?” 

“A few times,” Xavier admits. “Locker rooms. Once in a club where—” He pauses. How does he tell Dougie about the incident in juniors when he was at Datcha with a fake ID and a chip on his shoulder? Then, he remembers Doug’s brother and shrugs. “Hit a man trying to grab at me, once.” 

Doug glowers. “That’s never okay.”

Xavier smiles. It seems to him that the world, for Doug, has always been both complicated and uncomplicated. He likes it best when Doug smiles, uncomplicated and easy. When the world is the same. Doug’s not smiling now, so Xavier rushes to smooth it over. “So, you see, you won’t have to start from the beginning.”

“Show me a fist,” Doug orders. Xavier clenches up and raises his hand. Doug examines it, tuts, and pushes Xavier's hand around until his wrist is tilted at a different angle, and his elbow is pushed lower against his torso. “Start from there.”

By the end of the day, Xavier is sheened in sweat, and while his uppercut still needs work—Dougie’s words, Xavier knows that it’s absolute shit—he’s managing a credible jab. 

They both go home to the apartment, where Eva’s cooked up a little chicken and a lot of pasta. She takes one whiff and sends them both off to take turns showering in the miniscule cubicle bathrooms off the main living space. 

“We showered at the rink,” Dougie points out.

“Yeah, I can tell. You smell like jock straps and urinal cakes.” 

Dougie seems to take this as a point of pride. Or, perhaps, maybe the pride is in that Eva is still willing to kiss him anyway. Xavier watches, as he always does, out of the corner of his eye while pretending to poke at the chicken. 

“Looks dry,” he says when Dougie heads off to the shower.

“Fuck you,” Eva replies with a grin. “Go set the table or something.” 

They both laugh, and once everyone is showered and smelling less like No Name brand shower gel and more like Old Spice, they all cram together on the couch and put on Montreal vs. Buffalo. It takes less than an hour for Xavier to begin feeling the full effects of the workout; his muscles stiffening, his biceps beginning to ache with the number of unusual extensions. 

About the time Eva starts passing out against Dougie’s shoulder, he glances Xavier’s way. “You okay, buddy?”

“Sore,” he admits. 

“Try a hot bath with some of Eva’s Epsom salts,” Dougie says. He stands, wincing a bit as weight shifts around on his ankle, and centres himself before he scoops Eva into his arms with the sort of effortless show of strength that never fails to make Xavier’s mouth water. “I like to add a little lavender to mine. She says I smell nice after.” 

With that, he wishes Xavier goodnight and heads to bed. 

For the record, Xavier does not add any lavender to his fucking bath later that night. He puts a bottle on beer on the toilet, within easy reach, and stares at the faucet willing himself not to think too hard on Dougie’s hands on his arms, or Dougie's voice in his ear. 

(He doesn’t jack off in the bath—Eva would know. Eva always knows).

* * *

The physiotherapists put Dougie’s full recovery somewhere at twenty weeks. It takes them through their Playoff run (“next year,” everyone chants in the locker room once they’re out, “it’s gonna be us next year.” “And then we fuck your mama to celebrate.” “Fuck you, you Ruskie fucks.”) and into the new season. Dougie’s regaining strength; it’s easy to see. Every day he puts a bit more weight down when he moves, his pivots are getting more reliable, his skating is coming along smoother than it had when he first took the to the ice. 

They keep up Xavier's attempts at fighting until Dougie's satisfied with his right hook. 

_"You still need to work on your left,"_ Dougie says, utterly serious and as immovable as a brick wall. _"Just in case._ "

Dougie hasn’t played a whole season with them, and for the first few months of his time with the Highlanders, Xavier was determined to fucking hate him. It makes no sense for it to feel wrong that when they have their first regular season game of the year he isn’t on the ice with them. It sets Xavier's teeth on edge, and he almost—almost—breaks his promise to Doug when he’s facing off against one of the assholes from the Steelers and he mutters something incomprehensible but obviously insulting under his breath. He tells himself it’s not worth it, and with a snap to Ogilvey he’s tearing down the ice, and scores his first goal of the season twelve seconds after the first period begins. He tilts his head at the other forward, winks, and cruises back to the bench where Dougie is waiting in his best suit. 

“Great job,” Dougie says with his unbearable earnestness. 

“Good start, fellas,” Ronnie shouts. “Let’s try not to fuck it up.” 

They don’t fuck it up. 

Try as he might, Xavier doesn't manage a hat trick; another goal and two assists later, though, and they’ve neatly destroyed the Steelers 4-1. It’s the best season opener they’ve ever played as a team, and while the other team leaves the ice grumbling, the Highlanders are fucking ecstatic. 

They retreat to the bar that evening, heady on the win and, eventually, far too many jugs of Alexander Keith’s. Doug is squeezed in between Stevsie and Eva, smiling blissfully but only downing about one for every four that passes Xavier’s lips. 

To sum: when it’s finally time to stumble the fuck home, he’s a barely coordinated, giggling mess, and Dougie and Eva need to support him between them. 

“ _Chez moi ou chez toi?_ ” he demands with a laugh. He trips over his left foot and cackles as he staggers into Dougie and has to grab hold of his shoulder to stop himself from hitting the ground. “It’s the same place!” He’s set off in another peal of laughter, and Dougie and Eva both stop as he waves his hands and tries to catch his breath. 

“If he’s like this drunk, I can only imagine what he was like with a few lines up his nostrils,” he hears Eva say as he tries to heave in a few breaths into his amusement-strained lungs. 

“I don’t know,” Dougie replies. “I’m glad he doesn't do it anymore.”

“Me too.”

If Xavier was smaller, maybe Dougie would sweep him up, too, and carry him home. But even though he’s smaller than Dougie, Xavier is a wiry, muscled motherfucker, and so he has to satisfy himself with dragging his feet and counterbalancing between them. 

When they finally get into the apartment, Eva allows Dougie the honour of muscling him into bed. Xavier drops onto his duvet and lifts his hips up so Dougie can help him wriggle out of his pants. As soon as he’s down to his shirt and underwear, Dougie manhandles him around—if the room wasn’t spinning so wildly, Xavier would have a couple of things to say about the easy way Dougie is able to move him around, and none of them would impress Eva very much, to say the least—and tucks the covers up around Xavier’s neck, tucking him in. It’s so sweet and so ridiculous that Xavier can barely stand it. 

“ _Je veux être avec vous deux_ ,” he murmurs, head hitting the pillow. 

“Whatever you say, buddy,” Dougie whispers.

Xavier grins blithely, then passes out seconds later, warm and content.

* * *

When he does get into his first fight, it’s not because anyone’s gunning for him and he needs to defend himself, which he’s sure is what Dougie’s expecting. He still has cross hairs affixed to the back of his jersey, and every time he goes into the corner he half-expects the feel of a stick between the shoulder blades. It never comes, maybe because the other teams know that Dougie’s going to be back on the ice eventually and watches each game with a sharp eye from their bench as though daring anyone to put a hand on his teammate. 

No, the other teams respect Dougie’s fists as much as they hate Xavier. They leave him alone completely...

But they don’t respect Eva. 

“Yeah, I fucked her,” Xavier overhears. 

Xavier looks up to see a couple of d-men from the Kings looking towards the bench, where Eva’s tucked into the stands directly behind the Highlanders. She and Dougie are having a moment where they’re staring soppily at one another, as though they can hardly believe the other exists in a world where the other wants them. “Sloppy lay. I could hear her clapping when she walked.” 

They snort and snigger, and then make a point of skating by Xavier’s bench and nodding respectfully at Dougie. 

Since the beginning, Dougie’s told him not to fight when he’s angry. 

_“Calm, controlled movements,_ ” he’s always said. _“Some things are gonna make you mad. Don’t worry about them. Don’t start fights over them. Actually, don’t start fights at all. Just hit them back if they come at you.”_

Xavier’s about to ignore Dougie’s advice. Because he’s angry. He’s fucking livid. And he can practically hear Eva telling him not to be a dumbass, that she doesn’t need anyone defending her honour. But fuck that. Because Xavier’s about to throwdown. He knows how to pick a fight. To make it look like he’s the injured party. At one point, one of those bullshit know-it-all bloggers suggested his sport was better suited for the springboard than the ice rink, since he was so good at diving. He’s not diving on this one, but he _is_ gonna make Wallace fucking Olson come at him. 

It’s easy. A nudge here. A whisper there. He catches Olson eying him up, trying to figure out his game, and Xavier graces him with the smuggest, most shit-eating smile he can manage. The one that makes his own mother want to slap him in the mouth. Olson's wound up; his passes start getting sloppy, he misses an easy shot into Belchy’s five-hole. And when Xavier faces him across the circle and mutters, “ _Va te crosser,_ ” that’s finally enough to make Olson drop his gloves. Apparently, having some French team mates is enough to give him the context behind what Xavier’s saying, if not the actual translation.

He hears Ronnie cursing from the bench, but Xavier doesn’t glance his way before launching himself at Olson. 

Hitting a person is far different than whaling on a bag, or smacking ineffectually against Dougie’s gloves. Olson is a live wire, dodging and yanking and pulling until Xavier’s arms are burning with the strain of trying to hold onto him. He manages to land one solid hit to Olson’s mouth before the other man jerks Xavier’s jersey forward. Xavier half doubles over as his balance shifts, just in time to take an uppercut straight to the jaw, followed by another jab that opens up his lower lip. It sends him reeling backwards, but he manages to get a fistful of Olson’s jersey and land a solid blow to his cheek before they both fall to the ice in a tangle of angry limbs. 

They both go to the box, and Xavier has to suffer through Dougie and Eva both staring at him for two torturous minutes before he’s released. 

He catches the puck the second he steps out and races with it down the ice, snapping it into the King’s net, tying it up at 2-2. 

Fuck them. 

He sits next to Parky when he returns to the bench, instead of his customary place next to Dougie. The distance doesn’t matter; he can feel Dougie’s eyes on him anyway.

* * *

They win, but Xavier misses out on yet another hat trick.

* * *

When they get home that evening, Xavier keeps expecting Dougie to say something. Xavier broke a promise, and Dougie takes promises very seriously. But he remains silent, speaking only when answering Eva and then in monosyllables, and barely looking Xavier’s way. 

Xavier’s fucked things up.

He can’t bring himself to regret it. 

It’s past eleven when they get home, but instead of giving into his body’s demands for rest, he drops onto the couch and turns on the night’s highlight reels. He won’t be on; the only time the networks pay their league any mind is during attention-grabbing spectacles like Dougie’s fight with Ross—still being replayed in video highlights, even three months later—and during lock outs when there’s no “real” hockey available. But the familiar sound of commentary fills the otherwise uncomfortable silence until Eva finally huffs out a long sigh. 

“Ridiculous,” she says. She walks up behind the couch and leans over until her head blocks Xavier’s view of the screen. “Wallace mentioned that we fucked?” 

“ _Va fourrer ta mère_ ,” Xavier sneers. He resists the urge to spit, because he doesn’t need that lecture from either of them again. 

“Right, well, instead of fighting him, next time just tell him that it’s not technically whiskeydick if you have a micropenis, and that if he doesn’t want it getting out then he shouldn’t have texted me any dick pics.” 

Xavier cracks up. It doesn’t even matter if it’s true—and, from the look in Eva’s eyes, he’s willing to believe it’s true—and when she slumps down over the back of the couch to crush him into the upholstery he doesn’t buck her off. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and chuckles into the soft curve of her neck, smelling citrus-scented body wash and Dougie’s shampoo, stolen that afternoon when she discovered she was out of her own. It’s a combination that punches into him like an olfactory right hook, leaving him reeling. 

God, he wants this woman. As much as he wants her man, who is still standing quiet and unreadable in their kitchen, staring at the beer in his hand as though he doesn’t remember what to do with it. Xavier stills and untangles himself from Eva, scooting away as he suddenly realizes how things must look to Dougie. 

Sensing Xavier’s sudden discomfort, Eva rolls her eyes and repeats, “Ridiculous.” 

“ _Quoi?_ ” Xavier grumbles. He doesn't want to know. He desperately wants to know.

“Dougie, come and tell your boy what’s really on your mind before he combusts,” Eva orders. 

Dougie walks to the couch, steps so heavy Xavier can feel the floor shake beneath his feet. He stops in front them, standing close enough to Xavier’s legs that Xavier can feel the heat of his body in his kneecaps. He chances a look at Dougie’s face, which is drawn and every-so-slightly confused, as though he’s not sure what he should be feeling. 

“Watching you fight,” Dougie finally admits. “Was really hot.” 

Xavier blinks, not entirely sure he heard what he thinks he just heard. When Dougie flushes up from his neck through to the tips of his ears, though, Xavier’s mouth goes dry. He’s serious. 

Dougie keeps staring, his face still bright red, until Xavier scoots forward on the couch. He wants to reach out and touch. He wants to put his hands all over Dougie’s body. And Eva… he wants to hold her. To smell her hair and find out what her lips taste like. And he suddenly wonders if he can. If this is no longer a thing forbidden to him. It’s no longer a thing he needs to torture himself dreaming about, because it’s something _he could have_.

And it utterly paralyzes him. 

Eva huffs, and Dougie frowns, and Xavier sits frozen as an ice sculpture, his body unwilling to listen to even the simplest instructions to just fucking twitch in their direction so they know he’s onboard with this.

“I…” Xavier finally manages to stutter out a single syllable, followed by a gusty exhalation of breath. “Yes? _S’il te plaȋt_. Please.”

“That’s what it means,” Eva agrees, because she’s terrible. She leans over and kisses his cheek, gently. Not what he’d expect from her, when she and Dougie aren’t remotely inclined to keep to themselves when it comes to physical affection. He’s seen her lick a stripe up his cheek as a casual thank you. The soft, nearly platonic kiss seems so out of character it sends him spiraling into a sea of second-guesses. 

Until she reaches out and flicks Dougie’s crotch. Dougie jumps half a foot in the air and swings his attention towards her, betrayed. She jerks her head Xavier’s way and, finally, Dougie seems to get with the picture. He bends over, and cups Xavier’s cheek in one of his wide, rough palms. 

“Really hot,” he repeats. 

And then Xavier is tasting stale rink beer, Eva’s purple lip gloss and everything he’s ever wanted. 

Dougie kisses Xavier like Xavier is a woman; slow, soft, thumb tracing Xavier’s cheekbone. Xavier can’t say he minds, though what he’d really like is for Dougie to push him over and give it to him the way he’s heard Dougie giving it to Eva through the thin walls of their apartment. He tips his head up, opens his mouth and flicks his tongue out to chase down the taste of him, beneath the beer and the lip gloss. Dougie tastes like the edge of a hockey skate, a razor on his tongue; dangerous and contained, and needing so, so much careful handling. 

When they finally break apart, Xavier presses another, single kiss on Dougie’s lips and turns his face towards Eva. Whatever he means to do—compliment her man on his technique, say something stupid and inappropriate, thank her—it’s all cut off as she pounces to give him a tour of her mouth, and introduces him firsthand to her lip gloss.

“Strawberry?” he asks when she pulls away.

“Bumbleberry,” she informs him. “Come on. Bed.” 

She sashays out of the room, and Xavier’s eyes trail after her. 

His eyes turn to Dougie, seeking out… something. Assurance that this is real. That it can be his. 

Dougie smiles. It’s really all he needs. 

Stepping into their bedroom now is different than when it’s for something like late-night bitching about the state of the ice at their rink, or in search of the craft beer Eva keeps secreted away in the back of Dougie’s closet. He immediately thinks about the sounds he’s heard: Eva’s broken-off gasps of breath, or Dougie begging her for more. The walls here are thin, and he thinks that the beginning of this… thing happened months and months ago, when Dougie first brought Eva home and she decided to stay. 

He half-expects Eva to be naked. Instead, she’s sitting on the bed, clad only in one of Dougie’s t-shirts and lady boxers, looking at them expectantly. 

“Aren't we going to…” He waves a hand in what he hopes is a close approximation of a threesome. 

“In the morning,” Eva tells him. “We’re going to blow your goddamn mind.” 

Dougie wraps his arms around Xavier from behind and Xavier turns a puzzled expression his way. “Not now?” When he realizes he’d fallen back into French, he repeats himself in English. 

“You’re looking pretty rough,” Dougie informs him in the soft voice he usually saves for Eva. Xavier glances towards the mirror across the room and frowns at what he sees. A split lip. The puffy red heralding one hell of a bruise around his left eye. Another mottled spread of skin on his cheek. 

Eva seems to agree. “Why don’t we save the victory lap for tomorrow?”

“ _Pas fort_ ,” he mutters. “Lame. I’m not going to be any less sore tomorrow.” His face will still look a bit like raw hamburger, if not worse when the bruising comes in.

“Maybe we just want to hold you tonight,” Dougie tells him. “Is that hard for you?” 

Xavier’s hands clench at his side before relaxing again. There haven’t been many nights where he’s been in bed with another body and just been held. “ _Non_ ,” he says. “That… would be nice.” 

Eva opens her arms and Xavier obediently steps into them. She practically purrs, and pulls him down onto the bed. Dougie strips off his shirt and jeans, tosses them somewhere in the direction of the clothes piled up beside his laundry hamper, and drops down next to them. 

“This isn't a one-time offer, dumbass,” Eva whispers into his ear. “We’re gonna take such good fucking care of you, you have no idea.”

“Am I gonna have to get into another fight in order to finally get laid?” he asks the ceiling. 

Dougie kisses him again in response.

* * *

The next morning, as promised, they blow his fucking mind. 

Eva’s hands are everywhere, and the heat of Dougie’s mouth on Xavier’s cock is the closest his come to seeing god since his first communion. He shakes apart between them, and is halfway to hard again when Eva sneaks her way up his body and pops her tit into his mouth. He gamely sucks on her breast as Dougie slips into her from behind, and begins frantically rubbing off against her nearby thigh when he hears those tell-tale groans slipping from between her lips. He comes inelegantly on her stomach and freezes beneath her as Dougie fucks himself into her and rubs her to climax.

Eva apparently does not cuddle once sex is done, because she pushes them both out of bed and insists they fuck off to the bathroom while she recovers from what sounded like a truly breathtaking orgasm. 

Dougie follows him into the shower, crowds him up against the cool tile walls and leaves a trail of hickies between Xavier’s shoulder and neck. Xavier’s cock tries desperately and somewhat painfully to rally once again, but it isn't until Dougie’s fingers sneak down to rub against his hole that he manages to come, a barely-there, nearly painful whine drawn out of his throat along with it. 

“Got your hat trick,” Dougie whispers. 

“ _Ostie d’câlisse de sacrament._ ”

“Is that good?”

Xavier shoves his tongue into Dougie’s mouth in response.

When they finally emerge an indecent time later, Eva’s already made waffles. And, because she seems to actually love him and Dougie, she’s loaded them with Nutella and strawberries. The latter, he didn’t realize were in the fridge; the former had previously been banned from the apartment due to the extremely possessive nature of the near fist fight he and Dougie had once had over a half-empty jar.

When he kisses her, she tastes like hazelnuts, chocolate, Dougie, and morning breath. 

It’s the most perfect morning he’s ever had.


End file.
